


The Adventure Of The (Re-)Tired Captain (1888)

by Cerdic519



Series: Elementary 221B [93]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Detectives, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Deception, Destiel - Freeform, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Omens & Portents, Theft, Untold Cases of Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-24
Updated: 2017-05-24
Packaged: 2018-11-04 09:57:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10988559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerdic519/pseuds/Cerdic519
Summary: In this curious affair, John meets Sherlock's renegade brother Mr. Lucius Holmes, and the seer Mr. Kevin Tran. The former proves a good friend, and the latter gives him a strange warning. John also meets the vile Alistair for the first - but not the last - time....





	The Adventure Of The (Re-)Tired Captain (1888)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [whyamidoingthisitswrongbutiloveit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/whyamidoingthisitswrongbutiloveit/gifts).



Foreword: I can only advance my increasing concerns for my friend at this time that a further titular mistake followed on from the last one. But at least Sherlock was amused by all the subsequent speculation as to how he solved a case involved a tired rather than a retired captain. And this case brought us to one of the strangest outposts of the British Isles, somewhere we would see again in less happier times.

+~+~+

Sherlock and I were called in on a whole number of cases where our client or someone related to them was convinced that whatever was happening to them had a preternatural explanation, and in most cases, it turned out to be untrue. Most. In this case, someone's life was saved by their heeding the counsel of a seer. 

Throughout that spring, Sherlock had been called on for a whole run of minor cases, and I began to despair of ever getting him to slow down and relax. Mrs. Harvelle reported to me that his afternoon naps seemed to be on the increase, which in turn caused me some problems as I had by this time reduced my surgery hours to just three days a week. This was because of the increasingly positive attention that my novels of the great detective’s deeds were receiving, which had led to my publishers asking for me to publish another book, and for the “Strand” magazine to ask for a near-continuous flow of works from my pen. 

I am sure that my bank-manager at least was more than happy with my improved financial situation, but it also presented a problem. I needed to spend more time writing in 221B, but when I realized that this was making Sherlock miss his afternoon rests – he had appeared mortified the one time he had dozed off whilst I was writing in the main room - and thus become even more tired of an evening, I started spending time in the local library instead. The only exception was of course Sundays, when I went to our local park; fortunately they had a series of covered shelters, which given the wet weather that spring was a godsend. And it was in the park that I found a solution to my friend’s overworking, from a most unlikely source. Or rather, a solution found me.

It was the last day of March, and I was working through a particularly difficult part of our most recent adventure when I became aware someone had joined me in the shelter. Of course this was public property, but the shelters were small indeed, and I had spread myself out as a further disinclination against being disturbed. I looked up to see a tall, handsome fellow, very muscular and most probably a few years older than myself. I did not immediately recognize him, but when I did, I instinctively bristled at his arrival.

“I hope you can look more welcoming than that to your patients, Doctor Watson”, he said, pushing my papers aside to take a seat. “We have only had the pleasure of meeting briefly that one time in Amsterdam, although I am sure that Sherlock has spoken of his renegade elder brother.”

Yes. This was Mr. Lucius Holmes, whom the family referred to as 'Lucifer'. On the few occasions that Sherlock had mentioned him, his tone had been a surprisingly warm one (at least, compared against his other brethren), although I had suspected that this was partly because of the fact that both of them were disliked intensely by the eldest brother, Mycroft. 

I looked at the newcomer warily. The man before me worked for the government in some capacity or other; Sherlock had occasionally used his offices once or twice when he was on worse than usual terms with the unpleasant Bacchus. I suspected (and for once, I turned out to be right) that the man before me had to work in a different department to the lounge-lizard, as I could not imagine the two co-existing together for any length of time. Indeed, I doubted that any man would be able to tolerate Mr. Bacchus Holmes for more than a few seconds without wanting to kick him. I knew that I could not.

“Your brother is back at the house”, I said, “but it would be better if he was not disturbed just now. He is quite tired of late.”

“I would guess that you do not exactly hold the rest of us Holmeses in high esteem, bearing in mind that a certain Bacchus is your prime experience”, Mr. Lucius Holmes said carefully. “I will be straight with you, doctor. Sherlock has always wanted to be independent of us, and my mother has tried to respect that wish, as much as any parent can. She does of course keep an eye on all her sons, and I have to tell you doctor, she and I have both become quite concerned as of late.”

“He is overworked”, I said. “But he rarely declines a case, and he seems to feel that having been away so long during our Continental trip, he owes it to the common people to be there for them now that he is back. I only hope that he is taking advantage of my absence to catch up on some sleep, rather than working on yet another problem.”

“He always puts other people first”, Mr. Lucius Holmes said. “I think that I may have a solution.”

“Go on”, I said warily.

“Do you know of a place called Futility Island?” he asked.

“No, I do not.”

“It is a tiny place in the North Sea, close to the Essex coast and reached by a ferry from the island of Mersea. Probably one of the closest spots to London that is so cut off; Mersea itself can only be reached by a tidal road of poor quality that first runs some ten miles from the nearest railway station at Colchester. There is a retired sea-captain who lives on the island, by the name of Mr. Bulstrode Amadeus St. George Winteringham Falconbridge – I can only assume that his parents did not like him overly much!”

I could not help but smile.

“Mr. Falconbridge inherited his island house – it is a disused light-house, by the way - from his father last year. He also inherited a decent estate elsewhere in Essex, but rather oddly, he decided to continue working. Some ten years ago he got into diamond-cutting, a task for which it seemed that he had a natural flair. I suppose that I can see the appeal, especially as it pays incredibly well. He comes to London and spends a few days working each month, before heading back to his island retreat.”

“I think that it would be better if he tells you most of his story. It is all quite strange, and I am sure that it would entail you both going to his island, which means that you would be there for some time; the ferry is operated by a local fisherman who Mr. Falconbridge summons with a flag, and who then only comes when he is not out fishing. And short of someone sending flag signals from the mainland, there is no way to get messages to the place.”

I nodded, feeling slightly hopeful. I knew that Sherlock was not really the workaholic that he sometimes came across as in my stories; he knew how to relax, and he even knitted when the mood took him. Cut off from those demanding his services, he could hopefully solve this case easily enough, and get some much-needed rest.

“You should send this unhappily-named person to Baker Street”, I said. Mr. Lucius Holmes smiled at me.

“I shall arrange an appointment”, he said. Then he seemed to hesitate. “Doctor?”

“Yes?”

“Remember, the Holmeses look after our own. You and Sherlock – well. If you ever need our help, you have only to ask.”

He quickly rose to his feet and was striding away between the flower-beds before I could ask him exactly what he meant by that last remark. Then I remembered that he had said that he – and his fearsome mother – were both keeping a watch on us. Despite the relative warmth of the day, I shivered.

+~+~+

Mr. Bulstrode Amadeus St. George Winteringham Falconbridge was announced by Mrs. Harvelle (with a commendably straight face considering that, incredibly, his full name was on his calling-card) at 221B just under a week later. He was a small, rather nervous-looking fellow in his early sixties, grey-haired and almost cadaverous in his appearance. When he finally took a fireside chair, he just sat and stared at us for a few moments. Though I suppose in some ways that was better than the alternative; I privately thought that some of our clients frankly needed their lips sewing together!

“How may we be of service, sir?” Sherlock prompted. 

The man jumped at his voice, and I wondered if we should send down again to Mrs. Harvelle for something a little stronger than coffee. Finally however, he seemed to make an effort to pull himself together.

“My name, sirs, is Mr. Bulstrode Falconbridge.” Like Sherlock, he had a deep voice totally unbefitting of his thin frame. “I live a quiet and withdrawn life on a small island off the coast of Essex, called Futility Island. Every month I come to London for a week’s work as a gem-cutter. It is a trade I took up some ten years past, when I retired from working as a captain after an accident that left me with the limp that, as you see, I still possess. It turned out that I have a knack for dealing with the larger and more difficult gemstones, so my services are often in demand.”

“All that travelling must be somewhat expensive”, I observed. He smiled.

“It fetches me off the island”, he said, “which I suppose is good for me, and I get paid extremely well for my little work. You should understand that a tiny mistake in my line of work could cost thousands of pounds to the gem owner. So, to the crux of my story. Last week I took the boat to Mersea as usual – I have to plan my journey, because that town itself is on a tidal island - and from there I took a cab to catch my train at Colchester. I travelled into London as was my usual custom, and everything seemed normal. Until, that is, I reached my workplace.”

He paused for breath.

“I do my work at 'Carborundum', a private cutting firm, and pay them a rent for the use of their rooms", he went on. “I will not bore you with the science of my post, but my specialized trade mostly entails using only a few small instruments, which I carry with me. A diamond-cutter always uses his own tools; to do otherwise would be like waving the wrong national flag at a jubilee!”

I smiled at the analogy.

“On this particular day there was a man visiting the company, a young fellow of Oriental appearance called Mr. Kevin Tran, over from the United States. His company had purchased a large consignment of diamonds from Kenya and they were being shipped through London, his job being to evaluate them and telegraph a report to his employers. It was only later, from an overheard conversation at the warehouse, that I learnt that he was in fact taking the largest single stone over himself; he had checked the consignment when the ship had docked two days earlier, and that one gemstone was worth considerably more than all the others put together.”

“I do not think much of a workplace there they allow such information to be bruted about”, I sniffed.

“It struck me as somewhat untoward, too”, our guest said, “though perhaps later in my tale, you will see why his employers placed such trust in him. He is a small, quiet man, very young – although at my age, everyone seems young – and not the sort whom one would normally notice, so it struck me as odd that even after our brief introduction, I continued to observe him. He was doing some work on lesser stones for the firm whilst he waited for his ship, which was due to leave Liverpool that Friday.”

“The rest of that day passed quietly enough, as did the next three days. It is my usual custom to return to my island home after a week away, but this time I had arranged to call on a friend in Chelmsford and to spend the weekend with them, so I planned my departure for Friday morning. I went into the company to say my farewells and sign off on the inevitable paperwork, and was surprised to find Mr. Tran waiting at the door for me.” He hesitated. “I do not use the words lightly when I say that he looked exceedingly nervous. He pulled me to one side, and spoke so quietly that I was quite unnerved.

'“You return to the country today, Mr. Falconbridge?” he said.

I nodded, wondering what this was all about, and looked expectantly at him.

“I know you will consider this a little presumptuous of me", he said, "but may I inquire as to which train you intend to be travelling on?”

I frankly did not see what business it was of his, but the man was of a similar disposition to myself, and perhaps I related to him a little. Besides, as I have said, there was something strangely noticeable about him, though I could not have said what if pressed on the matter.

”The ten o’clock from Liverpool Street”, I answered.

He seemed to hesitate.

“The eleven o’clock is a much nicer train”, he said quickly. “Good day, sir.”

He hurried away before I could draw breath to reply. I stared after him, nonplussed.'

I suddenly realized what our guest was leading up to.

“The Ilford crash!” I exclaimed. Mr. Falconbridge nodded.

“Yes”, he said heavily. “The man’s comments left me confused, and I arrived at Liverpool Street Station with only eight minutes in hand. I decided that there was no rush, and rather than hurry through the queue at the ticket-offices, I could easily take a later train, and use the time to enjoy a late breakfast. Imagine my reaction when, after only half an hour, I heard an announcement that all trains were being diverted because of a crash to the very train that I myself should have been on. Four people were killed, and many more injured. I could have been one of them.”

“So this Mr. Tran may have saved your life”, Sherlock observed. To my surprise, our guest looked rather awkward at that.

“For the time, he did”, he said.

“What do you mean?” I asked. 

“It was an incident which did not strike me as important at the time”, he said. “My time in Chelmsford passed uneventfully, and on Sunday afternoon I journeyed on to Colchester. I had half an hour there before I could take a cab to Mersea, since I knew that the tidal road would still be submerged, so I decided to sit in the waiting-room and eat the sandwich that I had purchased back in Chelmsford. I went to use the facilities first – naturally I kept my precious tools with me, but left the bag with the sandwich in it on my table – and when I came out, it had been stolen.”

The Case Of The Missing Sandwich, I thought. Dramatic drum-roll, if you please!

“Do you ever take stones to the island for cutting?” Sherlock asked, looking askance at me for some reason.

“Not in person”, our visitor said. “The risk to myself, especially someone of my lack of physical strength, is too great. But sometimes a gem-owner will send a stone to me by courier, and arrangements will be made for me to meet with them at Mersea.”

“And someone following you home might not know that fact”, Sherlock said. “This is most interesting, sir. Please continue.”

“The following morning, I went for a walk around my island”, he said, “as I had done the evening before. I found what were indisputably bullet-holes in a fence-post along my route. The island is barely a mile from Mersea at that point, so it is possible that someone fired from the island, or took a boat out. Fortunately it was dark when I was out walking, so they must have missed.”

“You did not hear the shots when they were fired?” I asked, surprised.

“There is a shooting-range at the far end of Mersea, beyond the town and close to where it nears my island”, he said. “I sometimes hear them, if the wind is in the right direction, and I have on a couple of occasions found spent bullets on the island. It should be said that the channel currents there are too powerful for anyone to try to swim across. But Mr. Holmes, I am still afraid!”

Sherlock pressed his long fingers together in thought, and remained silent for a little while before speaking.

“We must proceed logically”, he said eventually. “I must ask you some direct questions, Mr. Falconbridge, and you must be honest in your answers.”

“Of course”, our visitor said, looking even more frightened.

“First”, Sherlock said, “the obvious question. _Cui bono?_ Who would benefit from your death?”

“No-one”, the man said firmly. “I am unmarried, and the last of my line. The island will go to the local council, because my family only holds it whilst the male line survives. And my money, although it is a substantial amount, is to be split between a number of charities. The only exception is two small annuities that my father left for two of his most faithful servants, which of course I kept up. One of them has since passed, but a separate fund will maintain the annuity for the other until they pass on, after which that money too goes to charity.”

Sherlock thought for a moment.

“You said that when you left this 'Carborundum', your Oriental friend Mr. Tran was ‘waiting at the door’” he said. “Was he actually there when you came to leave, or did he cross the room to intercept you?”

Our guest frowned as he tried to remember.

“No, he was definitely waiting there”, he said. “I remember because I saw what I knew to be his leather jacket on the coat-stand; quite unsuitable for this country’s climate, I thought. I presumed that he too was leaving, as his boat was departing late that evening, although he did not leave with me. But then, he would not had to have left until midday to catch his train.”

“If my friend is free, we shall definitely accompany you back to Essex, and see this charming island of yours”, Sherlock said, much to my surprise. “That is, if your light-house can host three bachelors?” 

“I would be delighted”, I said. “I shall send the surgery a telegram before we go.”

“I would also like to call in at this 'Carborundum' of yours”, Sherlock said. “This is a most curious case that you have brought us, Mr. Falconbridge. However….”

He paused.

“However, I feel it only fair to warn you that your life is in some danger. Do you have a gun?”

The man went so pale that I was afraid he might pass out.

“A g-g-gun. sir?” he quavered.

“The doctor and I will both bring ours”, Sherlock said reassuringly, pulling open a notepad. “And I must send a telegram before we leave.”

+~+~+

'Carborundum' lay on the far side of the city, on the edge of the East End, and it took some little time to get there. Sherlock had on his knowing smile, and I knew that he was up to something.

“What is it?” I demanded. “You have that look again.”

“We have been working together for too long if you can read me like that, doctor”, Sherlock smiled. “I sent a message to Henriksen to make sure that we were not followed by the driver of that hansom that has been parked opposite us in Baker Street whilst we were talking.”

“I am being followed?” That, of course, set Mr. Falconbridge off into a panic again.

“Not any more”, Sherlock smiled. “Henriksen will meet us at Liverpool Street if he has any news, but I doubt that your pursuer is that careless. I made sure that he pulled the man in for questioning before we left the house, so he will not know that you now have company.”

We arrived safely at the cutting firm, an ugly monstrosity of a black building, and Sherlock went in alone. He emerged just ten minutes later, and instructed our driver to head to the station.

“Did you find out what you wanted?” I asked. He nodded.

The firm took on two new staff in the last few months”, he said. “A Mr. Alistair Campbell and a Mr. Duncan MacLeod.”

“Both Scots”, I noted.

“The owner Mr. Ferguson is Scottish”, Mr. Falconbridge put in, “and I am half-Scots through my mother.”

“I hope that Henriksen is on form”, Sherlock said, as we sped along. “I rather fear that I am about to make severe demands on the poor man.”

+~+~+

Sergeant Henriksen met us at Liverpool Street Station as planned, and as Sherlock had feared, he had little news on Mr. Falconbridge’s shadow.

“The cabbie was told to watch for the man here leaving your house, and follow him wherever he went”, he said. “He was told that he would be contacted some time later today for the information, that was all. The man who gave him a crown for that great service was, and I quote, ‘tall, dark and mysterious’.”

“Our London cab-drivers read far too many novels in their spare time”, Sherlock said sonorously. “Authors these days!”

It took rather longer than it should have done for me to harrumph in protest at that totally uncalled-for remark. Sherlock chuckled, and handed over a sheet from his notebook to the policeman.

“I need anything and everything you can dig up on those two”, he said. “I am sorry to do this, Henriksen, but I need it in less than two hours. Whatever you have by that time can be sent to the telegraph office at a town called Mersea in Essex, which we shall then be passing through.”

Henriksen nodded and took the files, and I noticed that he hurried away, something his bulk was not really built for. Sherlock steered us to the ticket-office, and we purchased first-class tickets to Colchester. We were soon safely ensconced on the train, and I unfolded my newspaper as it pulled out of the station. We were barely up to speed when I gasped.

“What is it?” 

“Listen to this!” I proclaimed. ‘”There has been a most audacious theft aboard the liner _“Ruritania”_ , en route from Liverpool to New York. The victim was a passenger called Mr. Kevin Tran who, it has since emerged, was transporting what is believed to be the third-largest yellow sapphire in the world. The theft was discovered when the ship docked at Dublin, and it is feared that the thief has made his escape into Ireland.’”

To the surprise of both of us, Sherlock chuckled.

“I would like to have met this Mr. Tran”, he said. “Mr. Falconbridge, is this the same coat that you were wearing when you met him?”

“Indeed it is”, the man said. “Is that important?”

“I was only going to say we should place them in the rack”, Sherlock said. “It is a warm day for the time of year, and we have at least an hour’s railway journey ahead of us.”

He took both our coats, added his own and hoisted them all into the overhead rack. We then sat back, whilst I continued to peruse the newspaper article.

+~+~+

We were squashed together in a cab headed down to West Mersea, the sole town on the island of that name, when Sherlock posed a question to our client.

“You say that the ferry service, such as it is, is run by a local fisherman”, he said. “How trustworthy is he?”

“Exceedingly so”, Mr. Falconbridge said firmly. “His family have worked for mine for generations.”

“I am thinking about your pursuer”, Sherlock explained. “He will either come here, or send someone here. I think that we should be prepared.”

Mr. Falconbridge leant forward. 

“How so?” he asked.

+~+~+

I have to say that I loved Futility Island. It was little more than a hundred yards from end to end, and barely fifty across across, the old light-house springing up from its exact centre, though that building was less than half the size of its modern replacement which we could see a mile and a half away near St. Osyth. 

Mr. Falconbridge excused himself immediately on our arrival, saying he had to finish working on a small gemstone whilst he still had the natural light (his work-room was in a small extension building adjoined to the light-house, with windows on all three exterior walls). Sherlock bundled me up to our rooms, which because of the nature of the building were on different sides of the building.

I remember that my friend asked one question at dinner that evening which stuck in my memory for later.

“Apart from your obliging local fisherman, how else might someone gain access to the island?”

Mr. Falconbridge looked puzzled. 

“It is surprisingly difficult”, he said. “You might not think that, bearing in mind that you can see the mainland clearly enough, but you may have noticed that Tom went out some way west of the island before turning back. Although there is a deep channel between us and Mersea, the north of the island is on a wide triangular sandbank. That is why the light-house was built for the bigger ships; despite the charts, they kept grounding themselves on that sandbank.”

I remember that exchange because of what happened precisely two days later.

+~+~+

There was something remarkably freeing about being cut off from civilization, especially in these days of mass communication and the telegraph. I suppose that messages could be passed to us if needed, but I was frankly overjoyed to see Sherlock looking so happy the day after our arrival, sat in the old light-room whilst the seagulls screamed outside. He had brought his knitting, knowing that we might be here some time, and it was almost surreal to see him clicking away in the light-room. I knew not what sort of danger threatened our host, but I did not think that anything could reach us here.

The following morning, I found out just how wrong that belief was.

There had been a storm the previous night, and when I emerged the next morning, it was to an amazing sight. About a dozen people were standing at the little harbour, and Tom's fishing boat was tied up there as he talked with Mr. Falconbridge. Two smaller boats were sat just off the island, clearly awaiting their turn to dock at the tiny jetty.

All became clear when I went round the back of the light-house, to find a large fishing-boat had beached itself on the sandbank off the eastern side of the island. Sherlock came up behind me as I observed.

“They went out to sea from Clacton to observe the meteor shower last night”, he said. “Apparently the ship's navigator misread the charts and got caught out by the sandbank. Thankfully the seas were calm, and they were able to make the island using a row-boat.”

I looked at him suspiciously. He gave me his best innocent look, which I did not believe for one moment.

Six of the people on the quayside squeezed onto Tom's small boat, which sailed away as we watched, to be replaced by the first of the two waiting craft. Sherlock nudged me, and steered me over to where the remaining six people were waiting impatiently. To my surprise there were already three men seated in the next boat, and despite the lack of uniform, one of them was unmistakably our friend Henriksen, who was first out as the boat docked.

Although that was not as surprising as what happened next. One of the men in the waiting line, a pasty-faced middle-aged blond man, looked around nervously, then reached into his pocket and pulled something out.

“I know you, Victor!” he yelled at the approaching figure. “Stay there, or you'll never see this again!”

Henriksen just grinned and continued to approach him - I belatedly recognized one of the other men as Constable Goodenough from the same station – and our friend's target clearly realized there was no escape. He stepped back and hurled whatever he was holding as far out to sea as he could, and as it span through the air, I recognized it as a gemstone.

“Mr. Falconbridge's work!” I gasped.

Henriksen and his men had the man in handcuffs by this time, despite his worst efforts. Sherlock led me up to them, and coughed politely.

“Hullo, Henriksen. Mr. Alistair Campbell, I presume?”

“I 'aint saying nothin' without a lawyer!” the cuffed man sneered. “I knows my rights!”

“Very advisable, in your case”, Henriksen grinned. “Theft is a serious crime.”

“I don't see no evidence”, the man snapped back. “Unless you plan to dredge the whole damn ocean?”

“Why would we do that merely to retrieve a fake gemstone?” Sherlock smiled. Mr. Campbell stared at him.

“You're lying!” he snapped, although his voice belied any attempt at certainty.

Sherlock shook his head and stepped back, before putting his hand into his pocket. When it emerged, he was holding a large uncut yellow sapphire, which even it its raw state shone in the morning sun. It was a good thing he had withdrawn, as Campbell lunged after him.

“Now now, Alistair”, Henriksen grinned. “You need to control that temper of yours. Breaking and entering, theft, violence against a member of the public, resisting arrest – some judge is gonna have a field day with you!”

He and his fellow officers dragged Campbell away to the waiting boat. I turned to my friend.

“Explain!” I demanded.

He quirked an eyebrow at me. I sighed in a put-upon way.

“Please?” I ground out.

+~+~+

“This case was unusual as it hinged around a supposition based on someone that I have never actually met”, Sherlock said later. The three of us were sat in the light-room, which was the warmest room in the building during the day. “Mr. Kevin Tran clearly possesses some psychic abilities, and I started with the assumption that he used those to further his own ends.”

“By keeping me alive, you mean”, Mr. Falconbridge said.

“Rather more”, Sherlock said. “He knew that an attempt would be made to steal his sapphire when he was aboard ship, so before leaving London, he arranged to slip it into your possession, placing it in your long-coat before he met you that day in Carborundum. I have such a coat myself, and I know how deep the pockets go.”

“So you knew that someone might attempt to steal it?” I asked. He nodded.

“Campbell does not see Mr. Tran 'palm' the stone into your pocket”, he said, “but he is playing for high stakes here, so he has covered the possibility anyway. One of his agents follows you and later steals the bag you leave on the table, presumably thinking that people leave gemstones in paper bags in railway waiting-rooms all the time. At least he got a sandwich out of it!”

I smiled at that.

“Mr. Campbell himself went on board the _“Ruritania”_ with Mr. Tran, probably with a ticket to Ireland, and stole what turned out to be a fake gem. He returned to London and most probably next searched his workplace, but still found nothing. Someone talked, most likely for money, and he learnt that Mr. Tran spoke to you before you left. He worked out what had happened, and then had to find a way to reach the island. He was exceptionally fortunate that the annual meteor shower was being seen by a boat leaving Clacton, which he purchased a ticket on. I dare say that he bribed the navigator, ensuring that the boat hit the sandbank, and in the confusion that followed it was simple for him to break into the work-room. Mr. Falconbridge and I had made sure a fake stone was placed there, ready to be cut; he dared not use any light, as our host sleeps in the next room. And you have seen what followed.”

“So Mr Tran should be making contact again soon?” I ventured.

“He will return from Dublin once the police there have finished questioning him, most probably to Liverpool”, Sherlock said. “John, would you be able to travel across England to meet him, and spare him coming to us?”

“I would be delighted”, I said.

+~+~+

Thus it was that I travelled via Mersea, Colchester and London to Bristol in order to hand the stone over to Mr. Tran, feeling incredibly nervous that my doctor's bag held something worth more than I would ever earn in a lifetime. My quarry was taking a train from Liverpool to connect with another liner from Plymouth, and would break his journey at Temple Meads to meet with me. 

Mr. Kevin Tran turned out to match Mr. Falconbridge's description quite accurately. He thanked me for bringing him the stone, and as his train came in before mine, I saw him to his carriage. He leaned out of the carriage window, and just as the guard's whistle blew, he suddenly spoke.

“Doctor”, he said seriously, “there is something that you must remember.”

“What?” I asked, starting to walk as the train was beginning to leave the station. 

He hesitated, the distance between us widening rapidly. I barely heard his final words:

“Seeing is usually believing. But not always!”

+~+~+

Postscriptum: Eleven years later, I received a book in the post, with no sender's name, although it had been posted in the United States. The title was _“Futility”_ , and it was the story of how a huge liner described as 'unsinkable', the _"Titan"_ , set sail on its maiden voyage across the Atlantic Ocean with an insufficient number of lifeboats, struck an iceberg and sank to the bottom of the ocean with the loss of thousands of lives. I am sure that I need not remind my gentle readers what happened some thirteen years after that.....  


+~+~+

In our next adventure together, I discovered that dead men do tell tales... and that they can have a strange sense of humour even from beyond the grave.


End file.
